The Biofab War Read Online Free PDF Page A

stymied. If this is sabotage, Mr. Harrison, believe me, it’s working. You can imagine how Royal is taking all this.”
    “Poorly.”
    “Very.” He lightly drummed the stirrer on the rosewood desk. “They’re considering moving the entire operation to New Bedford, building the docking and refinery facilities there, rather than up the coast from here at Goose Cove. We could survive without Royal’s contracts and annual grant, but once one major corporation loses faith in you, it becomes pandemic. Old school tie, you know.”
    “May I look around, talk with your people?”
    “Sure. But the state police and Sutherland’s crew have gone all through that.” He rose. “If I can be of any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”
    The rain had stopped. It made the short drive to the Beachcomber Motel cool but dry. A note in Zahava’s hand awaited him at the desk.
    John,
    Registered here this A.M., but at lunch one of the staff invited me to stay with her. (Her boyfriend’s been deported.)
    Directions to an address in nearby Goose Cove Village followed.
    Twenty minutes later, he was knocking on the door of a cedar-shingled cottage on a quiet pine-treed lot. A cute, barefoot blonde in her mid-twenties opened the door, wearing only shorts and a halter-top, despite the cold.
    “Hi. You’re John, aren’t you? I’m Cindy. Zahava!” she called over her shoulder.
    The Israeli—sensibly outfitted in denim blouse and trousers—came off the back screen porch. Planting a wet kiss on John’s lips, she led him into the small living room. The décor was pure Sears, a relief after the Leurre’s oppressive modernity. He sank into a battered armchair, the day at last catching up with him.
    Cindy—secretary to Zahava’s new boss, Larry Levine’s—had met Zahava that morning and offered to share her rented house. She was still pining over the loss of her previous roommate, Greg Farnesworth. Greg, the story came out over macaroni and cheese, was a geologist with Royal. He’d been on loan to the Institute for two months, until Fred Langston had cleaned house two weeks before. Greg had been abruptly returned to his home base in Shreveport.
    After dinner, John walked Zahava to the shattered rental car parked beneath the pines. He quickly briefed her, adding, “I’m going over to the rental agency in Hyannis now to complain about vandals. I’d invite you along, but there’s still so much glass on the seats . . .”
    “What about the man who tried to kill you?” she asked as he eased himself into the car.
    “What man?” John said, shutting the door with a faint tinkle. “It was a phantom—when I got there—ten seconds, maybe—he was gone. I should have bumped noses with him or at least seen him. All I saw were some .223 caliber casings brass and a sort of green ooze. I’d swear I hit the bastard, though.” He started the engine. “And if blood were green, I’d know I had.”
    “Be safe,” she called as he drove off into the foggy night, knowing how stupid it sounded.
    He answered with a wave.
    The rental manager didn’t buy it. Belligerent, he was dialing the police when the account number on the contract caught his eye. Hanging up the phone, he shook his head. “You guys,” he sighed.
    Five minutes later, John pulled out in a new red Jeep. The manager inspecting the Buick looked up from his clipboard. “Can we have this one this one back in better shape, please?” he called.
    It took twice as long to get back to Goose Cove Village. The fog had closed in, making it hard to see beyond the headlights.
    A new car was parked in front of the cottage. John saw from the sticker that it was also a rental.
    Gathered on the comfortable old braided rug before a crackling fire were Zahava, Cindy and a sandy-haired man in his early thirties. The stranger drew his lanky frame up to greet John with a crisp, dry handshake.
    “You must be John. I’m Greg Farnesworth.”
    “Up for the weekend?” John asked, joining them on the